


Little King, Chosen King

by VolxdoSioda



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Whumptober Day 1: Shaky Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 07:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20849429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Noctis' hands shake.





	Little King, Chosen King

There is so much blood. So much more than Noctis expects. 

He’s seen stab wounds before. Seen them, made them sometimes, in those dire situations where either the Crownsguard or the Kingsglaive couldn’t get to him in time, and so he had to sort shit out himself. Had to keep himself protected, safe. Get himself in a corner, squirreled away, and fight if found.

It’s been a long time since he’s had to do that. A long, long time. So maybe it’s just that he’s forgotten. That he’s gotten clumsy, gotten stupid, his brain all scrambled in his stupid, stupid head--

But there is so much blood. It coats his hands, makes his grip slippery, and the addition of the sweat doesn’t help. Neither does the fact that his hands are shaking, trembling. He can barely keep his grip.

But for both of them, he has to. So say the Gods of the unkind world. So say those who his father went to on bended knee, when Noctis himself was young, much too young to realize what awaited them all, at the end.

In one world, Bahamut tells Regis  _ there need only be one more,  _ and Regis submits his life to the Crystal, hands the Ring to Lunafreya in the ruins of his own demise, and submits to Fate. To Bahamut.

Here, however, it would not be enough. Bahamut, while cold in that world, had reason. Had a Greater Plan in need to propagation. The end of the blessed, beloved Caelum line would see that Greater Plan bear fruit, and the world would continue to turn.

Here, he has no such things. Here, he does not have a Greater Plan. He only desires flesh, and blood, and  _ sacrifice  _ upon his altar.

Noctis is thirteen and ten months. A man, he is told, by Ignis, by Clarus, by Cor, by Gladio.

A man, so says his father, as he welcomes him into the throne room with a calmness Noctis wishes he had. A welcome to the inevitable? Or perhaps, a willingness to fight on in his own way, to hand the crown to Noctis, and leave for a more open chessboard, one where he can help but never be seen again?

Noctis will never know. Can’t ask him, now.

His hands shake, shake,  _ shake you coward, c’mon shake you little bitch  _ as he raises the blade a sixth time. As his lungs take in oxygen tasting like pennies, like tears, like salt. As he sobs as he stabs down, down, into the fragile flesh of his father’s body.

Regis is still breathing. Still waiting for Noctis to be a man. To  _ finish this.  _ He’s bleeding but it’s not enough, it  _ will never be enough so say the War God Bahamut-- _

Ten minutes later, it’s finally over, his father’s corpse removed from the room. Noctis, pale and bloody, sitting on a throne meant for a man greater than he. At the base stands his soldiers, his pawns.

“All hail,” Cor says, “For you stand before his Majesty, King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, Chosen King, Blessed By Bahamut. Kneel, and submit yourselves to his rule.”

They kneel. Crownsguard, Kingsglaive, friends-- now, just soldiers and pawns under his bidding, while his father lies cold in an unmarked grave somewhere in the city. Left to be forgotten by time.

Noctis reaches bloody fingers to the crown nestled in his hair, placed there by his father’s own hand right as the second stab had caught him in the heart.

His hand shakes.


End file.
